Best Kept Secrets(120)
Her whole body went limp with relief and she uttered a small,
glad sound.
The sheriffs Blazer executed a wide turn in the parking
lot and passed her room once more before driving away.
Reede thought about turning around and going to where
he knew he could find potent liquor, a welcoming smile, and
a warm woman, but he kept the hood of his truck pointed
toward home.
He was sick with an unknown disease. He couldn't shake
it, no matter how hard he tried. He itched from the inside
out, and his gut was in a state of constant turmoil.
His house, which he had always liked for the solitude it
provided, seemed merely lonely when he opened the squeaky
screen door. When was he ever going to remember to oil
those hinges? The light he switched on did little to enhance
the living room. It only illuminated the fact that there was
nobody to welcome him home.
Not even a dog came forward to lick his hand, wagging
its tail because it was glad to see him. He didn't have a
goldfish, a parakeet, a cat--nothing that could die on him
and leave another vacuum in his life.
Horses were different. They were business investments.
But every once in a while, one would become special, like
Double Time. That had hurt. He tried not to think about it.
Refugee camps in famine-ravaged countries were better
stocked with provisions than his kitchen. He seldom ate at
home. When he did, like now, he made do with a beer and
a few saltines spread with peanut butter.
On his way down the hall, he adjusted the furnace thermostat
so he wouldn't be frozen stiff by morning. His bed
was unmade; he didn't remember what had gotten him out
of it so suddenly the last time he'd been in it.
He shed his clothes, dropping them in the hamper in the
bathroom, which Lupe's niece would empty the next time
she came. He probably owned more underwear and socks
than any man he knew. It wasn't an extravagance; it just kept
him from having to do laundry frequently. His wardrobe
consisted of jeans and shirts, mostly. Having several of each
done up at the dry cleaner's every week kept him decently
clothed.
While he brushed his teeth at the bathroom sink, he surveyed
his image in the mirror. He needed a haircut. He usually
did. There were a few more gray hairs in his sideburns than
the last time he'd looked. When had those cropped up?
He suddenly realized how lined his face had become. Anchoring
the toothbrush in the corner of his mouth, he leaned
across the sink and peered at his reflection at close range.
His face was full of cracks and crevices.
In plain English, he looked old.
Too old? For what? More to the point, too old for whom?
The name that sprang to mind greatly disturbed him.
He spat and rinsed out his mouth, but avoided looking at
himself again before he turned out the cruelly revealing overhead
light. There was no need to set an alarm. He was always
up by sunrise. He never overslept.
The sheets were frigid. He pulled the covers to his chin
and waited for heat to find his naked body. It was at moments
like this, when the night was the darkest and coldest and most
solitary, that he wished Celina hadn't ruined him for other
relationships. At any other time, he was glad he wasn't a
sucker for emotions.
At times like this, he secretly wished that he'd married.
Even sleeping next to the warm body of a woman you didn't
particularly love, or who'd gone to fat months after the wedding,
or who had let you down, or who harped about the
shortage of money and the long hours you worked, would be
better than sleeping alone.
Then again, maybe not. Who the hell knew? He would
never know because of Celina. He hadn't loved her when she
died, not in the way he'd loved her most of his life up until
then.
He had begun to wonder if their love could outlast their
youth, if it was real and substantial, or merely the best substitute
they had for other deficiencies in their lives. He would
always have loved her as a friend, but he had doubted that
their mutual dependence was a healthy foundation for a life
together.
Perhaps Celina had sensed his reservations, and that had
been one of the reasons she'd felt the need to leave for a
while. They had never discussed it. He would never know,
but he suspected it.
Months before she left for El Paso that summer, he had
been questioning the durability of their childhood romance.
If his feelings for her changed with maturity, how the hell
was he going to handle the breakup? He had still been in a
muddle about it when she had died, and it had left him wary
of forming any future relationships.
He would never let himself get that entwined with another
human being. It was deadly, having that kind of focus on
another person, especially a woman.